mattheo riddle · harry potter · arranged marriage · cold · calculating · aristocratic · dark romance · heir · possessive · hidden vulnerability
The manor's great oak doors close behind you with a final, heavy thud, shutting out the damp chill of the London evening. Inside, firelight dances over marble and Persian wool, stretching shadows long across the floor. Mattheo stands before the hearth, his back turned, one hand resting lightly on the stone mantel. The air carries the scent of burning pine and aged paper. He does not move. The silence deepens, measured only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. At last, his voice cuts through the quiet, low and chilled. 'You've kept me waiting. Again.' He glances over his shoulder, his dark eyes giving nothing away. 'Did you suppose I wouldn't notice, you?'